


The End

by imaginationtherapy



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BACK ON MY BULLSHIT, Blood, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Even if it doesn't seem like it, Graphic Violence, He had a bad night okay, Hurt Aaron Hotchner, Hurt Spencer Reid, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Spencer Reid, Sleepy Cuddles, Spencer Reid Whump, Stabbing, Temporary Character Death, i'm evil that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29824161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/pseuds/imaginationtherapy
Summary: The famous interview with Chester Hardwick ... except Hotch and Reid get separated and Reid is left alone with Hardwick and a prison-made shiv.Oops.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid
Comments: 13
Kudos: 99





	1. Lost in a Roman Wildnerness of Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Point #1: If you notice any inconsistencies, roll with it. I know what I'm doing, actually.
> 
> Point #2: Please listen to the first like, 3 minutes of The End by The Doors. It sets the mood v well.
> 
> Point #3: No, I have not abandoned my other works. My brain just needed a break and I'm having fun playing with short and sweet....or short-ish and violent.
> 
> Point #4: I woke up today and chose _violence_

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not a five foot tall, hundred pound girl,” Hotch growls. He slides his tie off his neck, and tries to keep track of where Spencer is. He’s circling behind the table, heading for Hotch and the door. 

Hotch is determined to keep Reid safe, no matter what harm might come to his own body. He’s prepared to fight, and prepared to lose, so long as he keeps Hardwick’s attention for thirteen more minutes. Just thirteen minutes, and then Spencer is safe. 

This mess, all of it, is his own fault. He antagonized Hardwick, frustrated at how the custody battle was proceeding. He snapped at Reid, nearly blaming him for how things were going with Haley. He didn’t pay close enough attention to the timing of the guard changes and prison outings, too caught up in feeling sorry for himself. He’ll be damned if he gets Reid killed because of all of his mistakes.

Hardwick takes a step forward, and Hotch readies himself for the first thrown punch. Before he can move, though, he hears a blessed sound. The buzz of the door behind him. Thank God.

“Reid,  _ out,” _ Hotch spits. He backs towards the door quickly, refusing to turn his back on Hardwick. He gets a few steps from the door and prepares to bodily throw Reid through it if he isn’t already there. Instead, he feels a strong arm around his own neck, yanking him into the space beyond.

It takes him less than a second to recognize that the arm is  _ not _ Spencer’s, and only a fraction of a second more to throw his elbow back into his attacker’s midsection. The man grunts, and his hold on Hotch weakens just enough for Hotch to twist around to face the man. The guard’s uniform takes Hotch by surprise, and he nearly misses the left hook aimed square for his head. He ducks, swearing, and then slams the man into the wall behind him. It takes a few more hits, but finally the guard collapses unconscious on the ground. 

Hotch stands over him, glaring at the man and wondering what the  _ hell _ his game was. He must have been paid off by Hardwick, but why did the inmate choose such an incopetent guard. Hotch is so lost in his head that he fails to notice that Reid never followed him through the door.

Until a strangled scream of  _ Aaron!  _ pulls him out of his thoughts.

Hotch’s heart stutters.  _ Reid. _

Spencer Reid. Spencer Reid: his lover, his soulmate, his better half. Spencer Reid: small, skinny, beautiful. Spencer Reid, who is now locked in a prison cell with the serial killer they had come to interview.

Chester Hardwick. The man who could and  _ would _ kill in a matter of minutes. 

Frantically, Hotch tries the door, but without the guard’s passcode, he has no hope of getting into the room. No hope of physically protecting Spencer from Hardwick.  _ No hope _ . 

_ God, Spencer. _

Hotch shakes the door angrily, glaring inside. His heart stops as he catches sight of Spencer and Hardwick inside. Spencer is trapped in Hardwick’s grasp, held fast against Hardwick’s chest by one strong arm across his chest. Hardwick is grinning maniacally at Hotch, holding one arm out to the side of his body. It’s as if he is daring Hotch to follow the line of his arm down to his clenched fist. The clenched fist which holds a bone-white, razor sharp shiv. 

_ Please, no. _

Before he can even speak -- to argue or bargain or beg, he isn’t sure which -- Hardwick jams the shiv deep into the center of Spencer’s stomach. Hotch screams, unable to keep his own fear inside as Spencer’s face contorts in agony. Spencer gags and tries to curl forward. Only Hardwick’s arm keeps Spencer from collapsing onto the ground.

“Well, well, isn’t this something we have here,” Hardwick hisses. He twists the shiv violently in Spencer’s stomach, and Spencer gags again. 

“Stop! Stop hurting him!” Hotch demands. Terror courses through his veins, freezing his mind and leaving him incapable of arguing or bargaining. He can barely move, can’t even try to break the door down. He’s useless, utterly useless to save his husband. “Leave him be!”

Hardwick cocks his head to the side. “I could. I could leave him to bleed out. Should only take him ten minutes, with where I hit him. I could let him bleed out. Be kind. Let him rest until the end.” He yanks the shiv out, ignoring Spencer’s cry of pain. “But what fun would that be?”

Hotch only has a split second of warning before Hardwick jams the shiv into Spencer’s side. By the scream that the move tears from Spencer, Hotch is certain the man has hit a kidney. Spencer’s knees give out and he sags in Hardwick’s grip. The movement causes the shiv to tear up into Spencer’s abdomen, and he lets out an anguished whine.

Hotch’s stomach rebels and he has to lurch to the side to vomit. He  _ can’t _ \-- can’t watch this happen again, cant watch and listen to his lover be tortured and murdered again. He can’t do this, not Spencer, please,  _ God _ not Spencer.

“There’s not much in the way of entertainment for me, in here,” Hardwick purrs. He pulls the shiv out and examines the blood on it. The grin that spreads across his face is so deranged that Hotch feels horror’s little feet crawl up his arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “This is  _ so _ much better.”

Spencer coughs weakly, and Hotch feels his stomach clench in fear. Spencer’s blood is flowing fast and dark down the front of his shirt. Hotch feels his own hope taking the same route. Spencer doesn’t have much time before pain and bloodloss drags him where Hotch cannot follow. Hotch has no bargaining chip, no way to get Hardwick to leave Spencer be -- and even if he could stop the man, he has no way to get to Spencer, no way to stop the blood, no way to speed up the arrival of medics.

“Hardwick, leave him alone!” Hotch has to try, he has to see if he can stop this monster.

“Sorry, no.” The man slams the shiv into Spencer’s side again, and Spencer screams.

Hotch’s knees go weak at the sound and he nearly collapses as Hardwick drops Spencer to the ground, shiv still buried in his ribs. 

_ “Spencer.” _ The word that leaves his lips is weak, pathetic, terrified -- all things that he is at the moment, all things that are antithetical to who he is. “Spencer, no.”

Hardwick laughs, low and menacing. He crouches down next to Spencer and runs one finger up the side of Spencer’s face. Spencer whimpers, curling away from Hardwick and in on his own injuries.

“Get away from him,” Hotch snarls. “Get away!” 

“I never expected to kill two agents, you know.” Hardwick cocks his head, studying Spencer the way a scientist studies a specimen. “Wasn’t sure if I could even kill one, that’s where poor Jason came in.” He leans over Spencer, prying the young man out of his curled position. “Then you brought me this lovely, skinny thing and I just _knew.”_ He yanks the shiv out of Spencer’s stomach, smiling at the way Spencer whimpers. “I knew he would be _perfect.”_   
Hardwick trails the shiv up Spencer’s arm, digging in just far enough to draw blood through his thin shirt. 

Spencer whines, his face scrunched in pain.

“Spencer,” Hotch whispers. “Spencer, just look at me. That’s it, keep your eyes on me. I’m right here, babe. I’m right, God, I’m right here.” His shoulders heave in a silent sob. He can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe Spencer is right there, so close, bleeding out in front of him.

“A-a-aron …” Spencer whispers. One hand reaches out towards Hotch, bloody fingers clenching on air as they try to reach Hotch.

One minute, Hotch is focused on Spencer’s pale hand, long, slender fingers trying desperately to reach him, and the next minute he’s listening to Spencer howl in pain and staring at that damn shiv sticking out of the back of Spencer’s hand.

“You bastard!” Hotch screams. “You bastard! He’s dying, damn you. Leave him be, God, leave him be!”

Hardwick just grins and slowly pulls the shiv from Spencer’s hand. Spencer keens and weakly pulls his hand to his chest. 

“Of course he’s dying,” Hardwick croons. His voice is suddenly rough and gravelly, reminiscent of Foyet. Horror fills Hotch as he watches Hardwick move to straddle Spencer. “I made sure that he won’t make it out of here alive. Relax, Agent Hotchner. Relax, Agent Reid. It makes it  _ so _ much better.”

Hotch knows what’s coming, knows what Hardwick is going to do, and he cringes away from it. He can almost feel Foyet’s knife sliding into his own body as Hardwick slowly, carefully, almost tenderly pushes the shiv into Spencer’s body.

Spencer arches pitifully upward, moaning as the makeshift knife slices into him. “S-s-stop. Stop.  _ Stop.” _

“Hush, now,” Hardwick murmurs. “Let it happen. Just  _ feel _ it.” He repeats the process, sliding the shiv in and wiggling it around. 

Spencer cries out in utter agony, and Aaron retches again. He can’t stand this, he  _ can’t. _ He can’t stand here and watch his lover be tortured to death like this, can’t stand the reminder of Foyet’s knife sliding in and out, in and out, in and out. 

_ God. _

“Spencer --” Hotch’s voice is rough as he tries to get Spencer’s attention. “Spencer, baby. Please, just … just look at me. I’m right here. I’m right here, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

He’s crying now, tears streaming down his face. He can’t stop them, doesn’t want to stop them. It’s his worst nightmare, coming to life in front of him, and he can’t stop it. He can’t even comfort his lover as he dies, can’t wrap his arms around him, can’t keep him safe.

“Aaron…” Spencer’s voice is desperate, soft, and filled with pain. “Aaron, p-p-please…” He stretches out his mangled hand, reaching for Aaron.

“Eyes on me, Spencer. Eyes on me, please don't look at him.” Hotch can see Hardwick slide the shiv into Spencer again, can see the way Spencer’s body shudders at the intrusion. “Just look at me. That’s it, baby, that’s it. Just me.”

Hotch keeps up the litany of comforting words as the light slowly fades from Spencer’s eyes, keeps talking even after Spencer’s chest stops heaving, keeps talking even after the dark red crimson lifeblood stops flowing.

It’s only when he hears the noise of the guards behind him that he lets himself collapse to the floor, tears flowing freely from his face. The only thing he can see, even as he hears the noise and commotion around him, is the lifeless face of his lover, of Spencer Reid, of the only person that matters.

Dead. Spencer is dead.

Hotch curls in on himself and cries.


	2. Come on Baby, Come on Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This became...much more hotch-centric than anticipated. Oopsies.

Aaron can hear someone calling to him, can hear them calling his name. 

_ Aaron! Aaron, open your eyes. Please, c’mon Aaron. Look at me. _

He shakes his head, pushes at the hands which are trying to shake him. He doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to see any of them, doesn’t want to see the men who came too late. He doesn’t want to open his eyes up and see his lover’s lifeless eyes staring back at him. He can’t … can’t do this. He can’t open his eyes, can’t listen to whatever platitudes they try to tell him. Spencer is dead, and he died in pain. There is  _ nothing _ they can tell him that will comfort him. 

_ Nothing. _

_ Aaron! Aaron, please, you’re scaring me. _

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, doesn’t care, doesn’t  _ care. _ Why can’t they just leave him alone, leave him here with Spencer, leave him  _ be? _

_ Aaron, I’m right here. Dammit, Aaron. Open your eyes. I’m fine. I’m right here. Aaron, open your goddamned eyes! _

He does, finally, with a desperate gasp for air. He’s angry, angry at them for interrupting his grief, angry at them for being so late, angry at them for letting this happen when they were supposed to be  _ safe. _ He’s angry, and he’s ready to yell at them, ready to rage against whoever dares to disturb him.

But instead of a the worried face of a prison guard, he’s met with the pale ceiling of his own bedroom. He blinks, completely confused.

_ What the hell? _

“Thank God, you were scaring me. Jesus, Aaron.”

Aaron snaps his head to the side, following the sound of the voice. He knows that voice -- that lovely, beautiful voice. He knows what that voice sounds like in pleasure and in pain and in fear and in relief. He’d last heard that voice screaming in pain and now it’s simply talking to him, acting as if Aaron is the one who almost died?!

_ Spencer! _

He’s right there, inches away from Aaron, wearing an old Cal-tech sleep shirt and with his hair all a mess. He seems to be kneeling next to the bed, his hands hovering uncertainly above Aaron’s chest. There’s concern written all over his face.

“S-spencer?” Aaron croaks.

“I’m right here, Aaron.” Spencer’s voice has dropped its stressed tone, softening as he takes in the terror that must be evident on Aaron’s face. One hand comes to rest on the side of Aaron’s face. The touch breaks Aaron.

“Oh, God.  _ Spencer!” _ Aaron launches himself at his lover. He ends up crashing into Spencer, and they slide to the floor in a tangle of limbs. “Spencer, oh my  _ God!” _

Aaron wraps his arms around Spencer, pulling him as close as he can. He buries his nose in Spencer’s neck, breathing in the wonderful scent that is all  _ Spencer. _ He can’t believe the man is here, warm and alive and breathing, right under his hands. It seemed so real, all of it -- from the light of the prison and the smell of blood to the harrowing cadence of Hardwick’s voice. But it was … was it all really just a  _ dream? _

Spencer folds into Aaron, curling his arms around Aaron’s back and gently rubbing circles into it. He lets Aaron hold him, lets Aaron settle, lets his breathing slow down. He holds Aaron, one hand combing through Aaron’s hair, stroking gently at the nape of Aaron’s neck.

Finally, once Aaron stops shaking, Spencer turns to give him a gentle kiss. Then Spencer leans back, taking Aaron’s face in both of his hands.

“Foyet?” he murmurs.

Aaron shakes his head. “Hardwick.”

Spencer blinks at him, face blank. “What?”

“Chester Hardwick, from the prison,” Aaron explains shakily. “He stabbed you, Spencer. He stabbed you over and over and -- oh, God.”

Aaron shoves Spencer backwards, his hands fumbling desperately at the hem of Spencer’s shirt. He yanks the garment up, gasping in relief when he sees pale, clear, unmarked skin. His shaking fingers trace over the skin, ignoring the way Spencer’s breath hitches at the touch.

“He stabbed you. Here,” Aaron’s fingers tenderly caress a spot on Spencer’s stomach. “And here … and here.” Gingerly, Aaron maps out each of the places Hardwick had stabbed Spencer. It’s as if he expects the awful red gashes to reappear.

Neither man mentions that he’s mapping out the mirror image of his own scars.

Spencer lets Aaron’s fingers wander, but gathers them into his own hands once they stop moving.

“He didn’t, Aaron. I’m okay, I’m alright.”

Aaron takes a deep breath, nodding. Then his breath hitches again.  _ Spencer’s hands.  _ Frantically, Aaron flips Spencer’s hands over, examining them carefully for the awful stab wound he  _ prays _ was just a dream. He finds nothing, just the graceful fingers and sinewy hands he knows and loves.

No blood. No gore. Just smooth skin.

He kisses each hand, first the backs, then the palms.

“Your hand,” he murmurs shakily into Spencer’s skin. “He … he stabbed your hand.” Aaron shudders. “Oh, Spencer. It was awful.”

Spencer’s hand curls around Aaron’s face, fingers gently caressing his cheek. “I’m right here, Aaron. I’m right here.”

Aaron leans into the hand on his face. The touch feels so soft and gentle and  _ alive. _ He brings his own hand up to cup Spencer’s. They stay like that, curled around each other in the lamp-light, while seconds and minutes tick by. Aaron lets his heart rate come down, lets his breathing slow, lets his body melt into the arms that are wrapped around him.

It’s strange, to sit like this, to let Spencer hold him, to let his own fear and worry crumble down around them. Usually he’s the strong one, the one holding Spencer, the one holding the team together. But here, after this nightmare, he’s content and  _ grateful _ to let Spencer hold him up, comfort him,  _ love _ him.

Finally, Aaron feels himself start to get sleepy. He wraps his arms around Spencer and sighs into his hair.

“God, I’m tired.”

Spencer huffs. “Of course you are.” He kisses Aaron’s forehead. “Bed. Bed for us.” He yawns. “Fuck, I’m tired too.” He leans back and glances at Aaron. “You scared the shit out of me.” He kisses Aaron again, soft and sweet. “I couldn’t wake you up. You were screaming for me, and I couldn’t wake you up.” He swallows, and blinks back tears.

Aaron brushes back the hair from Spencer’s forehead. “I’m so sorry, love. I didn’t … I couldn’t --”

Spencer kisses him, effectively shutting Aaron up. “Don’t apologize. You stuck in the nightmare, I was just stuck outside of it.” He smiles at Aaron. “Lets just go to bed. Try for better dreams.”

Aaron nods.

Somehow the two of them finally manage to make it into bed, once they untangle their legs and arms from one another. 

Aaron tries to lay out flat, like he usually does, so that Spencer can curl around him. Spencer has other ideas. He tugs Aaron’s head down to his chest, pushing and pulling on Aaron’s arms and legs until Aaron is effectively wrapped around Spencer like a koala. 

“Just listen to my heart beat,” Spencer murmurs. His fingers comb through Aaron’s hair. “I’m right here, and I’m alive. Just listen to me breathe.”

Aaron wants to fight it, wants to argue, wants to be the strong one. But tonight, he just can’t. Every time he closes his eyes, he still can see Spencer’s blood on the floor, can still hear his screams. With his ear to Spencer’s chest, all he can hear is the calming  _ lub-dub _ of Spencer’s heart, the soft  _ whoosh _ of his breathing. 

So instead of fighting, he curls himself closer to Spencer, lets himself give in, lets himself seek the comfort that he always gives, rather than receives. Spencer wraps his arms around Aaron, pulling him closer. He hums contentedly, resting his chin on the top of Aaron’s head.

“Rest, Aaron,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in a long time, Aaron feels  _ safe. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full confession: I usually hate the "it was all a dream!" trope, because often its used as an excuse to short-circuit the comfort. Which is baloney. But I needed the dream to give me the flexibility to do what I wanted. I *hope* I balanced the comfort out. 
> 
> Please, please, please let me know what you think <3 I know I'm shit at responding to comments (I get overwhelmed and can't think of what to say back) but I *adore* comments. They make my day.
> 
> Anyhow. I suppose I should get back to my other stories now. Whoopsies. Have a good one, y'all! Thanks for reading <3

**Author's Note:**

> How you like? Like? Pls let me know. :-)


End file.
